I do not love you as if you were salt-rose or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. I love you as certain things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms, but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers. Thanks to your love a certain fragrance, risen darkly from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride, so I love you because I know no other way than this: where "I" does not exist, nor "you," So close that your hand on my chest is my hand, So close that your eyes close and I fall asleep.